


Strange Boy

by AplusIsRoman



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Amnesia, F/F, F/M, Kanaya Is A Diary, M/M, Multi, My First Fanfic, POV Alternating, may continue someday, old
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-01 08:19:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6510259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AplusIsRoman/pseuds/AplusIsRoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose Lalonde is walking home one day when she hears a noise in the woods. What she finds changes everything.</p><p>Pale/sibling Dave/Rose! Strilondes galore!<br/>First fic, no hate please! UnU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dear Diary,

For my first entry, I suppose I should introduce myself. I am Rose Lalonde. I am thirteen years old, blonde, and have inherited a rare genetic mutation from my mother that allows me to have purple eyes. My mother, Roxy Lalonde, has pink eyes. I have never met my father, and have no siblings. Today, December fourth, is my birthday. I have received you as a passive-aggressive gift from my mother, along with a card that says this is for 'writing my feelings'. So, as both a jab at my mother and to put use to this otherwise wasted gift, I am writing in you now.

I have never had a diary before, so please pardon any mistakes on my part in partaking in such a stereotypical teen-dominated activity. Today, I woke up around 7:56 AM, four minutes prior to my alarm, which I had set in anticipation of a birthday greeting, which burst into my room promptly at 11:30 AM in the form of my mother singing 'happy birthday' loudly and off-pitch. She is truly aggravating.

I immediately responded with a heartfelt and loving embrace, stating that she was and is 'the best mother in the world'. The day that followed has been full of such passive-aggressive bickering, which it seems I cannot escape, even on the anniversary of my birth. It is now merely 9:38 PM, and my mother has left the house to go shopping, which means she shall not return until long after midnight has passed and I am in bed, staring at the ceiling as I contemplate politics and whether or not there is a God.

I do not know how to continue, and so I will leave this as it is. 

Forever analytical,  
Rose Lalonde

PS: I believe you need a name other than 'Diary'. It seems a bit too unoriginal for my tastes. I shall be calling you 'Ms. Maryam' from here on out. I would ask if that were alright with you, but you are an inanimate object that cannot respond through ordinary means.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which PLOT HAPPENS.

Dear Ms. Maryam, 

It has been almost a week since I have written in you, but today is the first day since that anything noteworthy has occurred. Today, December 8, I was walking home from my prestigious private school, (they have buses, but I prefer to walk. And it is unrelated, anyways) when I overheard a distressed noise coming from the woods surrounding my mother's estate. 

Naturally, I rushed to investigate, only to discover the carnage of a wild animal attack. Bits and pieces of varying animal parts were scattered around the clearing- I have decided to spare you further description, Ms. Maryam, but I am sure whomever may read this gets the picture. 

I was certain that whatever animal had done this was not far, and so I turned my heel to go back to the safer, self-beaten path to my home. However, a glint behind a row of bushes nearby caught my eye, and I peaked over it. When I saw what it was, I promptly phoned my mother, who wasted no time in driving recklessly down to where I was in a golf cart and take my findings up to the house. We tried to care for them as best we could, but the lesser of the two was past saving, and ended up buried outside of Jasper's (my late pet cat) Mausoleum, with a crude wooden cross to mark the spot.

I found a boy. A strange boy who, had he not been wearing sunglasses, I wouldn't have recognized as a human being at all, his body was so mangled when I found him. He'd been unconsciously gripping an equally injured crow- the source of the distressed calls. Had I not known better, I would've sworn the crow looked relieved at the sight of me. The crow, unfortunately, did not survive, but the boy has so far. He remains unconscious as of late, but his erratic breathing has been restored to that of a more healthy pace. He obviously does not live near here, as mother knows everyone who lives in our tiny, yet wealthy town (which we technically live many miles outside of, and therefore are only mentally members). He could not be a visitor, because it is no one's birthday, no one has died, and we do not get tourists. There is nothing special about our town, aside from being one of the most secluded, rich ones in our country. 

And so, I am curious: why is this boy here? Where did he come from? What happened to him? And perhaps most importantly, who is he?

Concerned yet curious,  
Rose Lalonde

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good? Bad? Let me know!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Roxy is a doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short but meh.

Dear Ms. Maryam,

Today is December 9, the day after I found the mysterious boy. I went downstairs this morning to check on him, and he is not only still unconscious, but cleaned up as well. At least my mother has some sense of decency, it seems. However, I was shocked by his appearance.

Countless bruises and cuts aside, he had numerous scars on his arms, and when I went to check, multitudes more on his stomach and back. How did he get these scars? Was he raised in an abusive home? Is that why he was here- had he run away? These questions and more plagued me as I changed his many bandages. 

As shocking a development this was, though, it was not the first thing that was brought to my attention. He has hair so fine and blonde, I first thought it white. His skin is unhealthily pale to match, possibly going along with my previously stated abusive family theory. At the same time, he may simply naturally be that way- I will not know until he wakes up, which my mother (who has several doctorates, in both medical and technological fields) says should be soon, if he continues to progress as he has so far.

Eagerly anxious,  
Rose Lalonde


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IT'S THREE SENTENCES JUST READ IT PLS

Dear Ms. Maryam,

He opened his eyes. They are blood red. Today is December 10.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BOY.  
> YES, YOU, BOY.  
> WAKE UP, BOY.

Dear Ms. Maryam,

I apologize for the brief entry that I wrote earlier. My excitement got the best of me. Today is still December 10, and it is now around 10 PM. 

This morning, around 11:23 AM, I was sitting across the room from the boy, wondering what I should put in today's entry- as I felt that I should, or perhaps, rather, would- write something. I glanced up to the boy and was met in my gaze by the boy's scarlet eyes (not blood colored, as I had hastily scribbled when I made this revelation). 

He did not do anything but to stare at me as I wrote my three sentences, then closed my book quickly. I stood and walked over to him, but other than his stare following my every move, he did not react. He did not move, nor did he speak. If anything, he seemed to be confused to the point that he did not even realize that he *was* confused. I decided to speak to him.

To quote, I said, "Hello... What is your name?" 

Something seemed to spark in his eyes, and he opened his mouth as if to answer, but as he did so his face contorted into one of a torturous pain, and let out a bloodcurdling scream. 

I covered my ears and closed my eyes instinctively as my mother rushed in. When I re-opened them, however, the boy had passed out yet again.

I told Mom what happened, and she said that it was indeed worrying, but progress still. She recommended that if it were to happen again, that I not make any drastic movements or attempt to interact with him- to wait for him to do something on his own, so that I will not startle him. 

Ever questioning,  
Rose Lalonde


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which someone needs to help the smol bby.

Dear Ms. Maryam,

He is awake again. It has been two days, and is December 12. I have just recently come home from school, and opened you with plans of complaining about the pure idiocy of the education system when he opened his eyes. I am in the same spot as before, and therefore right in his eyeshot. We stared at each other for a moment, and then I began to slowly- cautiously, as I was told- write inside of you. 

He has yet to move, and his expression has not changed. Does he even remember me? It is not unlikely that he received head injuries along with his other beatings, so perhaps we are on a clean slate now? Or maybe he is frightened of me, this strange person in this strange place in which he feels such pain. Surely, that must be the case. I feel as if I should do something, and yet-

I apologize for cutting off like that, but something happened. The boy spoke to me, or at least attempted to. As in, he opened his mouth and made a noise that was not a scream, but filled with pain all the same. There were tears in his eyes, and I could not say anything but this:

I pity him. How terrifying it must be to be in such a position as he. 

He is making another noise. I believe he is saying 'help'.

.

.

.

I will continue this later. A boy needs my assistance.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PLOT AND STRANGE MEMORIES

Black, and then bright. With the bright comes pain. Subtle at first, but then growing with unimaginable speed. It catches your breath, but before you can do anything, the pain has grown so strong your body has numbed it. You do not move for many minutes, or perhaps many hours. You do not know. You do not know lots of things. Why do you feel this pain? How was it inflicted upon you? Who or what did it? Where are you? Who are you? You do not know the answers to any of these questions. All you know is that you /don't/ know, and that you're /supposed/ to know. 

You struggle for the longest time against yourself before managing to open your eyes. Then, you immediately shut them. Peeking out into the bright light, you finally manage to observe your surroundings.

You are in a room with white wallpaper and framed pictures of old men with white beards in robes wave around sticks dramatically. You assume these are wizards, of the fictional caliber of course- everyone knows magic is fake as shit. Books are scattered about, and on the other side of the room sits another person.

She is pretty, you decide, but in a Goth sort of way. Her chin-length hair is held out of her face by a gray headband, and her black lipstick is held in a content yet subtle smile as she twirls a pen in her hand above a journal of sorts. You stare at her for several minutes, wondering if she knows why you are here. You don't want to risk hurting yourself more, though, so you don't move.

But then, all of a sudden she does and oh god she's staring at you. Her mouth forms a little 'o' and her eyes widen to exaggerate her expression- are they purple? Probably colored contacts. You keep on looking at her, now wondering what she will do. 

The girl jots something down in her book and slams it closed, getting up from her comfy-looking spinny chair. The sound makes you wince. She doesn't notice.

She walks towards you, then stops, looking uncertain. 

"Hello... What is your name?" She asks you, giving off an air of a 'prim-and-proper' kind of person. 

You wish you knew the answer to that. You try to think of a response anyway, and end up getting the memory of holding something. You can't remember what it is, but it's small and important and the next thing you know you're opening your mouth to ask where it is instead of answering her question.

As you do so, your head is suddenly splattered under a hammer and riddled with bullet holes. At least, that's what it feels like. So, you do what any sensible person would. 

You scream, then pass out again. 

It feels like it's eons later that you wake up again. Your head is throbbing with pain, but the rest of your body seems to be mostly just sore. You suppose that's an improvement. At least, that or your nerves are damaged. 

You fully expect to be in either a padded room with a small camera in the corner, or the ruins of the house you first woke up in- maybe the elderly great-great-great granddaughter of the girl you saw will still be alive, waiting for you to come out of that goddamn coma already so she can whack you on the head for making them all wait so freaking long. But no, it hardly seems like any time has passed when you open your eyes.

The room looks the same, and the girl is still twirling that pen in her hands, looking at that book of hers. It's jade green with a weird loopy 'M' shape on the cover. Does her name start with 'M'? Does she know who you are? Does your name start with 'M'? Is your name-

No, your name doesn't start with 'M'. You don't know what your name is, but you DO know what it's not. You suppose that might be helpful? Not without a lot of googling, though. You'd probably start with popular boy names for your birth year. Now, how old are you?... This is going to take awhile.

The girl's noticed you. She's staring at you, like before. She starts to write in her book with painstakingly small movements. It kind of reminds you of a squirrel that knows it's being watched, but doesn't know what's watching it or where it is. 

You want her to walk over to you and tell you what she knows, but she stays as she is. You briefly attempt to telepathically commune with her, but after a minute you give up. Looks like you're going to have to talk to her. You'd cross your fingers in hopes that this time ends better than the last, but you can't feel them at the moment. 

Your first attempt to talk only lets out a strange gargled sound, and even that makes your eyes water in pain. She stops and stares at you for a moment, waiting. When you pause for too long, she returns to her book. 

You try again, and your voice cracks. 

"Eh-el... hel-ep. Help." Your weak plea takes a toll on your ego, but right now you don't care. Your ego can go take a hike- you need help, and she's the only one here. 

The girl looks at him with a soft expression, which soon hardens. She scribbles something- again with that goddamn book- and shoves it aside, standing and walking over to you.

She looks nervous, and you want to laugh. It's not like she was in excruciating pain right now, begging for help from a stranger. 

"My name is Rose." She whispers. "Tell me what to do." 

Relief floods over you. Her tone is calming, and the fact that she got straight to the point helps as well. You really don't want to talk again, but it doesn't seem like you have much of a choice. You let out an undignified noise that may or may not have been a whimper, then try to move your hand with as little shaking as possible. 

"S... small... t-thing...ng..." You try to make the shape of the small thing that for some reason is so, so important. You don't even know why it's important, but it is and that's why it's the first thing you ask her. 

The girl- 'Rose'- looks puzzled, and you don't blame her, but then her eyes light up like she's found the Holy Grail. She walks over to a small table- not big enough to be a dining table but too big to be a coffee table- and grabs something. It's small. 

She brings it to you and you grab it eagerly, ignoring the pain that erupts in your shoulder. They're sunglasses, and you think that yes, they must be it. For some reason, you remember the color black, and these are certainly black.

Instead of putting them on, (who would wear them inside?) you grip them tightly, as if they could somehow explain what was going on. They couldn't of course, but it was a comforting thought.

You hadn't realized you'd fallen asleep, but you woke up to the sound of two people talking in hushed whispers. You peek open your eyes to see shadows formed by a source of light that originated behind you. The voices also were in that direction. 

You will up all of your energy to pull yourself into a sitting position. Surprisingly, it doesn't hurt as much as you thought it would. You're still sore, but for the most part you're fine. 

You observe your surroundings a bit more, at first. You're laying on a cot with light blue sheets, and your tattered, bloody clothes look out-of-place. The room you're in looks like a living room, only it doesn't lead outside. The lights are out in this room, but the door is open, and light peaks through. You put on your shades- you suppose it's simply so you don't have to hold them- and stumble to your feet.

After a couple of minutes of bumping into walls and tripping into doors, you make your way down a hall decorated with more and more wizards. Occasionally, you'll pass a group of sticky notes, as if someone wanted to remember something whenever they went past a certain door or such. You don't pay much attention to those, only focusing on following the voices and oh god why is the hallway light on it's too bright in here and thank god you put on those shades. 

You stumble into what must be a kitchen, and the voices stop. You force yourself to stop panting from exhaustion and look up. Rose and a woman who you assume is her mom stare at you in surprise. Rose takes a careful step towards you. 

"Hey. It's me, Rose. Do you remember me?" She asked softly, putting her hands out as if to show she meant no harm. You nod, too out of breath to respond. 

Rose smiles kindly and gestures to the woman behind her. "This is my mother. You can call her Ms. Lalonde, if you want."

You look over to the woman, who waves at you enthusiastically. She looks happy. You guess that's probably a good thing. 

"What's your name, kiddo?" Ms. Lalonde asks, and once again, you are faced with the empty void in your mind. You grasp for something, and again remember something completely unrelated.

The image of a flash of metal flickers in your mind, the sound of that same metal clanging over and over again playing on repeat in the background. You honestly are starting to believe that your mind is fucking with you. Which, of course, would be just your luck. 

"I... I don't... remember." You speak with almost alarming clarity, but it's dented by your complete and totally drained energy supply. 

Rose and her mom look surprised, but Rose recovers first. "Do you remember anything? Where you came from? What attacked you?" 

"I... I remember..." You furrow your brows in concentration. "I remember... my shades, and... swords." 

"Swords?" Rose asked, taking a step forward. 

"Yeah." You say, more confident now. You're certain that that's what you remember, and you're kind of proud of yourself for figuring it out. 

"Do you remember any people, honey? Your family? Friends? Neighbors?" Ms. Lalonde asks, appearing concerned. 

 

You close your eyes to think. You expect to come up with something totally random, and you're right. But this time, it's actually helpful.

"Dave." You say, as if it explains everything.

"You remember someone named Dave?" Rose asks.

"No. I'm Dave." You say, your voice getting stronger with use. "That's my name."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHADDAYA THINK, EH?  
> Leave your thoughts in the comments! ^u^


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two-part

Dear Ms. Maryam,

Today was fairly eventful. I shall start where I left off, to prevent confusion.

I managed to hold a brief semi-conversation with the boy, and determined that he wanted his sunglasses. I was quick to give them to him, and he soon fell into a restless sleep. (Perhaps they are some sort of sentimental keepsake? Giving them did seem to bring him comfort...)

I went down the hall to inform my mother what had occurred. I also saw that she'd replied to my post-it notes informing her of her loveliness, saying that she was nothing compared to me. It is not relevant to my story, but it is irksome. 

Luckily, it seemed that I'd caught her in one of her sober moments. I'd explained what had happened, and she resolved to make chicken soup for dinner, as he was sure to be starving and the broth would be easy for him to digest. 

A few hours later, as we were finishing in the kitchen, the boy came stumbling in a manner not unlike my mother on most days. He was wearing his sunglasses, and his tattered shirt was hanging onto his body by one shoulder, exposing a section of his chest. Had I met any other person looking as he had at that moment, I would have turned and run in the other direction. 

We- my mother and I- managed to calm him down and ask him some questions. He has amnesia, but he told us his name was Dave. It doesn't appear that he remembers much else. 

We all sat down to eat, and Dave wolfed down three consecutive bowls of soup, as well as an unbuttered piece of bread and some salad. He proceeded to fall asleep at the dinner table. Mom and I briefly bickered over the situation this caused before deciding to simply cover him with a blanket and leave him be. 

Mom left a few minutes ago to purchase Dave some new clothing. I went back to retrieve to you to pass the time, and here we are.

Your benevolent author,

Rose Lalonde

***********************************

A chill is rushing in from the north, he says. We'll have to really hunker down this weekend.

You nod, but you're not really listening. The winds are perfect today, and you can't wait to get out there. 

Going outside, the town is straight out of a fairytale. Sweethearts are singing to each other, and mothers play with their children. Over in the distance, two guys trash each other as the girl they're fighting over watches in anticipation. You've lived here your whole life, and you *hate* it. 

Something small flies into your arms, and you smile, rolling your eyes sarcastically behind your shades. This is the most important thing in the universe to you. This is the sole reason you're still in this deceivingly sugar-sweet hellhole, and fuck if it isn't a good reason. 

You look down to see what it is, but your vision blurs. What? What's going on?!

The background colors blur like someone using Photoshop for the first time. The sounds fade into static, and the two guys look like they're making out. You panic. What's going on? Where are you?

Who are You?

You are Dave. At least, that's what your memories say. Where are you? You don't know. You don't know what's going on.

You don't know why this is happening.

And now, you no longer know just what it was you were dreaming about.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More character development than plot, tbh.

You wake up groggily as you remember just where you are. You stand to stretch, feeling relieved at the fact that whatever medicine you've been given is working. You're still tired, but you're too awake to go back to sleep, especially on the hard dining table. Before you can go explore your new home, however, your stomach growls at you and you miraculously find your way back to the kitchen. You dig around and find some granola bars, which you shove in your mouth so fast you don't even taste them. Then, you find a plastic container of strawberries that you eat more slowly as your massive appetite is satisfied.

You glance at the digital clock on the microwave, which reads 6:20. WAY too early for anyone to be up. You decide that you really don't care about your sleep schedule though, and begin to wander aimlessly around.

Looking out of the windows tells you that you're on the second floor, but not the top one. Also, who seriously needs so many hallways?! It's like a maze, and pretty soon you're lost in the sea of wizards and cheesy family photos. 

You hear a pitter-patter of feet coming down another hallway towards you and panic. You hide instinctively, somehow managing to get on top of a glass display case without realizing it. The footsteps stop and you peek over the edge. Embarrassed, no one is there. You frown and lean over, falling on the floor. There's a loud hiss as a cat scampers away and boy, do you feel stupid. You really hope Rose and her mom don't sleep near here, 'cause otherwise they'd be awake for sure. 

Sure enough, you hear a distant door open and close as you peel yourself off of the floor. Your face burns as you run off, putting your shades back on. (You don't care that it's starting to get light out, you think they look cool.) 

You find yourself at the top of some carpeted stairs leading to the main level and fights the urge to slide down. You still haven't fully recovered yet from... whatever-it-was that happened and you already fell down from a really high display case that you still aren't sure how you climbed. 

You make your way down, then stop. Ms. Lalonde is passed out on a couch, snoring. You cautiously ease past her into another room. 

You close the door behind you with minimal squeaking. You then turn around and gasp. The walls of this room are all glass, and you can see through them. The backyard is a magnificent garden surrounded by the tall pines of the forest. The golden light from the sun has just begun to seep through the trees and before you know it, you've let yourself outside, breathing in the crisp fresh morning air. 

You stroll through the overgrown yet beautiful rows of hedges and flowers, soaking it all in. The freedom of just being well enough to move hits you and makes you feel exhilarated. A laugh escapes your lips, loud and cheery. 

"What are you laughing about?" You whirl around and there's a little girl half your age standing there, smiling at you curiously. You didn't even hear her come up. 

"Nothing." You shrug, smiling. "I'm Dave. What's your name?"

"I'm Casey." She chirps. "It's nice to meet you, Dave. Do you live in that big house?"

You look over at where she's pointing at Rose's home and contemplate your answer before just shrugging your shoulders. Casey giggles like it's the most hilarious thing ever. You ask her if she lives around here and she nods, pointing vaguely at the forest. 

"Do you know the people who put out the snacks?" She asks, changing the subject. Her head just goes past your elbow, and it's kind of adorable. 

"What snacks?" You ask. She leads you around the side of the house, where there's a bowl filled with food. It's soggy from the dew, but still good. Casey tells you that hungry people stop by sometimes and that there's a girl who refills it every day.

"That's probably Rose." You describe her, and Casey confirms your theory. The Lalonde's seem to be pretty charitable people, by the looks of it, and you feel bad about raiding their pantry earlier. Those granola bars were probably for the bowl of snacks. 

You hear someone calling your name and whip your head around. You turn back and spot Casey hiding among the trees, and realize that she'll probably get in trouble if she's caught. You signal to her and she nods before running off. 

You walk around the corner of the house to see Rose standing on the back porch. She's wearing a thin white nightgown and looks cold and worried. You feel guilty for walking off without at least writing a note or something. God, you're an idiot AND a jerk. 

"Here." She turns to face you and looks relieved. "...sorry, I guess I just needed some fresh air." You say awkwardly. Rose laughs softly and gestures for you to come in. 

She somehow leads you back to the kitchen and pours you both some cereal. You don't really eat it, just sort of stirring it with your spoon as you look guiltily at the small pile of plastic wrappers in the garbage bin. 

When Rose is done, she excuses herself politely to get dressed. You force yourself to eat even though you're not hungry, and Rose gets back just as you finish washing your dishes and setting them aside. 

"Good morning." She smiles. You nod and awkwardly return the greeting. 

"Would you like a tour of the house, Dave?" She asks you. 

"Sure." You reply. Then begins the tour of the maze.

First off, the Lalondes are *rich*. They have their own library, science lab, mini gym (complete with a pool), two kitchens, six dining rooms, a home movie theater, eight bedrooms, two art rooms, a dance studio, and fourteen and a half bathrooms all squished onto the first and second floors. The third floor, Rose explains, is under construction, and the attic is off-limits even to her. The basement is filled ceiling to floor with alcohol of every kind- Ms. Lalonde's personal collection.

Speaking of which, just as you walk out of the basement you are handed a plastic shopping bag of 'some clothes of every seize'. Yes, seize. Not size. You thank them both before taking the bag to one of the 14 1/2 goddamn bathrooms and trying them on. The smallest ones are baggy on you, and you realize that you're just about skin and bones at this point. What kind of lifestyle did you have that you were so thin? 

You end up keeping them all, reasoning that you'll grow into them eventually, and one way or another, you have enough clothes to last you an entire month without washing now. You look at your old, tattered, bloody clothes and hesitate to throw them away. It's not like they can really be used for anything else anymore, it's just that they're one of your few ties to your forgotten life. What if someone you knew sees you and doesn't recognize you? You stuff them into the cabinet under the sink, resolving to find a better hiding place for them later. 

You walk out, and Rose is waiting for you, writing in her damn book. You ask her what it is, and she tells you it's a diary. You guess that makes sense, but now you're wondering what she's said about you in there. Maybe later, when you don't feel so morally obliged to help any way you can, you'll sneak a peak. For now though, you're happy to act as a temporary addition to this charitable, small, wealthy family. 

At least, you hope it's only temporary.

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter will either be one diary entry, or one narration. Hope you enjoy!


End file.
